Songs of the hummingbird
by Citfomp
Summary: It seemed Moriarty was back. The question was, how? How does one survive a bullet to the brain? Sherlock had an answer. Twins. No one said it was a good answer.
1. I Psychic Detectives

**A/N:** **I was bitter about s4 but then I realized instead of ranting to everyone about it, I could write crack. So I did.**

* * *

I. Of Psychic Detectives and Schrödinger's Villains

John blinked.

"Twins?" Mycroft's face was sour, his tone unimpressed. An insult ready in his tongue—sharp enough to pierce skin, almost too painful to keep between his lips—and a twitch of an eye. He was rapidly approaching his breaking point; just two more lefts and a right turn and he'd be in destination Mental Breakdown in no time.

Sherlock just winked. Because of course he did.

Mycroft's fingers twitched while his face further attempted to suck into itself. It appeared he had just made a left turn.

"There is no twin" Mycroft briefly broke eye contact with Sherlock in order to burn, thankfully only imaginary, holes into John's body. Almost as if it was his fault that Sherlock had come up with the twin theory.

Which honestly. _Hurtful_. Sherlock was perfectly capable of coming up with stupid shit all by himself.

John was tempted to flip him off but thought better of it. He just rolled his eyes instead and turned to Mary for support.

He didn't find it. Instead, he found her typing something on her phone. John had to pout because what was the point of having a wife if not to bond with her over how ridiculous the Holmes brothers could be.

Soon Mary's gaze met Sherlock's.

"You have no clue, do you?" She looked at him like she often did ever since the whole Shooting Accident TM. Her eyes held a slight guilt she couldn't be bothered to be too worked up about, glazed with a hefty dose of "let's pretend I didn't almost kill you".

John wasn't quite sure how to feel about people being willing to commit murder because they love him. If he was honest with himself, part of him was flattered. The other... He wasn't thrilled about his best friend almost dying—really, he was fucking pissed about that, because what the fuck.

He also wasn't thrilled about his best friend almost getting exiled.

John made a face. He would need to sit down Mary and Sherlock and tell them about appropriate ways to express their love for him. Preferably ones that won't end up with Sherlock being taken away from him.

...

Oh. And that don't involve killing people. Killing people is bad. Yeah. That too.

"Pffttt. Of course I do. Who knows Moriarty better than me?"

John sighed. He knew it was a possibility that Sherlock was bullshitting them. He had been higher than a fucking kite, but maybe, just maybe, Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing.

Mycroft's glare was so intense that his eyes were nearly slits. John eyed the handle of Mycroft's umbrella and winced. His grip on it was so strong that John was empathizing with an inanimate object. If this conversation continued the way it was going, John knew he would be compelled to open a shelter for abused umbrellas.

"This is serious, Sherlock"

"So am I"

 _In 200 meters turn right_

 _"_ I looked everywhere. I can't find anything about Moriarty having a twin" it was moments like these that only helped John feel more confused about his wife. He loved her. He hated her. He didn't care about her past. He did. Fuck her.

Wait.

No.

... _Yes_?

"You look but you don't _observe_ " Mary continued to look. Unimpressed, that is.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft didn't yell, but rather hissed. But not. Because you can't hiss 'Sherlock'. The sounds are too harsh and definitely not the ones required for hissing. John knew it because he had personal experience. It didn't work. And if his effort was questioned, John would have to cut a bitch, because he had given it his all and the only thing he had to show for it had been a sore throat.

Anyway.

Mycroft's not hiss.

Sherlock finally began to look like he wasn't a crack addict. Which was a feat, seeing as he was and had recently almost OD'd.

"There's a perfectly logical explanation for it" he looked solemn.

Mary raised an eyebrow.

"What do you know?" maybe Sherlock wasn't bullshitting them after all.

"You can't find his twin because it's a _secret_ twin" oh boy...

"You see...Moriarty's twin was so unstable and so much more dangerous than him that he was sent to a top secret facility where all traces of him were erased—"

 _You have arrived at your destination_

* * *

It had taken three shoes and a tranquilizer to stop Mycroft from strangling his brother.

"Why, Sherlock...just why?" John grimaced as Mary cleaned up the scratches on his face. Mycroft was fucking ruthless.

"What's the point of having a brother that's the British government, if he can't get me pardoned"

"You kinda killed someone, Sherlock"

"He was a dick" Mary shook her head fondly. Because of course she did.

"True" Magnussen truly was a dick. The dickiest dick that ever dicked.

"They wanted to know what Moriarty had planned. I just gave them the most reasonable possibility given the circumstances"

"A secret twin?" Mary asked mostly amused. Maybe the reason why he couldn't bring himself to fully hate her was because of how easily she got along with Sherlock. Despite everything, it was entirely possible she saw him as a friend. After all, where did it say you couldn't like and enjoy friendships with people you tried to kill? Hmmmm?

Murder attempts and desires of friendship were not mutually exclusive.

 _Check and mate_. Watson wins.

"The video is the same two seconds in a loop and I was gone less than fifteen fucking minutes. I'm a genius, not a psychic"

"Huh. So you have no idea how he did it?" John didn't exactly feel happy about that.

"None whatsoever" Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Well. Definitely not a twin. Much less a secret twin. Imagine that. A secret sibling locked away in a secret prison. How stupid would that be?"

John had to agree. It was really fucking stupid. Mary also nodded in agreement.

Mycroft's unconscious body only twitched on the ground. He might have made a noise. But it was more likely he was choking on his spit. If he wasn't though, John would assume he was agreeing with them.

He sighed as bent over to grab his shoes. He was never going to catch a break, was he? At least Sherlock was back.

He wiped a bit of blood from his shoe and then looked at his friend.

Everything would be okay as long Sherlock was at his side.


	2. II Domestication and Other Hells

**II. Domestication and Other Circles of Hell: The John Watson Story**

 _Baby Butt Fan_

John looked at the product in his hands. He blinked. The description didn't change. Was this necessary? Did babies need this? Was this seriously where his hard earned money was going?

Fuck that.

He put the box back and then looked at his list. He had crossed off exactly zero (0) items from it and had yet to find anything Mary had asked him to get. He already had spent 20 minutes in the store.

 _20 god damned minutes._

He closed his eyes and sighed. John could feel the beginnings of a headache; he was starting to question, not for the first time if having a child was _actually_ a good idea.

"Excuse me, sir. Do you need any help?" the voice was grating and nasal. A pitch bordering shrill, with an air-headed quality which gave the impression of an underlying giggle that threatened to escape at any moment.

John regretted all the choices that lead him to this moment.

He opened his eyes and turned to look at the new addition to his personal hell. The lady wore a hideous blue shirt that all the employees wore. She was blonde, sported a deep tan and gave him the creepy customer service smile that never failed to leave him on edge. Her eyes were covered by a giant pair of sunglasses.

Who wore sunglasses indoors? And who even wore heart-shaped sunglasses anymore? So tacky.

"no. I'm fine" he gave her a closed lip smile of politeness and wish she would leave him to suffer in peace.

"You have been loudly muttering to yourself about our products and you're starting to scare some of our customers" the smile never left her face.

"I'm fine" the dark lenses stared back at him. The hair on the back of his neck raised. He ignored them.

"Really. Everything's under control" he glanced back at the shelves. He grabbed a baby butt fan and put it in his basket.

 _See?_ The action said.

She didn't move.

He didn't move.

 _Silence_

Ok then.

John grabbed two other boxes, the fuck if he knew what was in them, and added them to his basket. He was not going to spend the rest of his afternoon in some sort of standoff with a toys-r-us, employee.

"I got everything I need" he stepped around her and tried to leave the aisle as fast as he could without making a scene.

When he thought he was a safe distance away, he glanced around. She was still watching him. That wasn't creepy at all.

He speed walked to the cash register. There was no way he was staying in this playground of satan for another damned second. This experience was seriously making its way to his top 10 worst moments ever. It was right above the time he was mistaken for Sherlock and taken by the lotus.

Getting kidnapped had at least been exciting.

Buying the random objects went without a hitch but now he was about fifty pounds poorer and still had zero (0) items from the list. Great.

Mary was so not going to like that.

She was so not going to like that at all.

* * *

" _But, if I remember correctly, you almost killed my best friend. So really. You can't get too mad at me about this"_

The moment he had stepped through the door Mary had grabbed him and taken him to their living room. She read the text he had sent her immediately after leaving the store.

He tried to justify himself.

John looked at Mary. Her eyebrows were by her hairline. Just hanging there. Unimpressed.

With little success, it seemed.

"She was creepy, ok? I couldn't stay there anymore" he was not going to apologize for his text.

She rolled her eyes fondly. At least, he hoped it was fondly. You know what? He would just assume it. It'd make him feel better.

"It couldn't have been that bad," She said while looking at what John had bought. Turns out they were now the proud owners of not only a baby butt fan but also a bright pink pee cup and two boxes of warm wet wipes.

 _Fifty pounds_

His eye twitched.

"Trust me. My danger senses were tingling"

She laughed.

"I'll go with you next time. But you're painting her room" she said pointing at their unborn child. Not even born and already causing so many problems for her dad.

"Do I have to?"

Before Mary could answer, John received a message. It was from Sherlock. Oh, thank fuck.

 _Come at once_

 _It's urgent_

 _S.H._

 _"_ Duty calls" he couldn't stand up fast enough. He made his way to the door in record time.

"Say hi to Sherlock for me" he heard Mary say as he closed the door.

It had been way too long since Sherlock called him for a case. Ever since the whole Moriarty thing, Sherlock had been working nonstop on the case and for some reason, he hadn't called John for help.

That meant John was beginning to go into withdrawal because he was craving adventure so much that he could cry. Getting things ready for the baby was honestly so boring and dull that you wouldn't believe; some nights he would wait for Mary to fall asleep and he would get drunk while he read over his past blog entries and old news articles because where did those good old days go? Each day bringing another mystery to their door. Each day new and different.

Those days were gone. It wasn't the same anymore. Despite how much he tried, the dynamic had changed; nothing he did would be able to take them back to those early days. There had been a brief moment after Sherlock came back when he believed everything would go back to the way things had been before the fall.

But with each passing day, their future failed to align with their past, which left John to be haunted by the echoes of what had been.

He went from uncovering secret government experiments to buying stupid butt fans.

Yeah. That was his life now.

He wasn't bitter. He wasn't.


	3. III Caffeine: A Catalyst of Tears

**A/N So. Excuses? I lost a USB and spent way too much time trying to save my content. Back up your data, kids. I also took a Sunday to compose a song. Do I know how to music? Not at all.  
Actual reasons for this taking way more than it should: I started outlining and that is where my stories go to die. So I had to stop that.**

* * *

 **III. Caffeine: A Catalyst of Crushed Spirits**

John Hamish Watson.

A war veteran.

A doctor.

A hero.

And as it turns out, Sherlock's bitch.

Because why else would he be standing in line at Starbucks during coffee rush hours? John didn't think his life was a joke because he didn't feel like laughing, but if there was even a chance it was a joke, he was certain it was terribly unfunny. He refused to think anyone would find any humour in it.

He had to.

He gritted his teeth and stared at a jar of lightly roasted java Arabica beans. He was annoyed that Sherlock had sent him on a coffee run—not even an _exciting_ coffee run, just a three-minute-and-seventeen-seconds stroll into the nearest Starbucks.

When did Sherlock become so basic, anyway? Was Mrs. Hudson on holiday or something?

Name after name was called out as sweet shadows of what had once been coffee were handed out to the hands of addicts eager to get their next coffee fix. The sight of the line moving and the baristas working efficiently was not unlike one of a well-oiled machine.

He wasn't even mad. OK, he was _insulted_ that the only thing Sherlock had asked him to do for the new Moriarty case was to act like he was some fucking intern. After everything they had been through, John was definitely above being some sort of coffee boy. He was at least at digging-through-garbage-for-clues levels of sleuthing.

Name a single coffee boy that helped stop parliament from blowing up.

He'll wait.

The line continued to move and John was finally at the front. The barista looked young and friendly-a wide smile that was too warm to be fake, greeted him as he moved about a step forward.

But more than anything, he was embarrassed. Mortified, even.

"What can I do for you today?" her brown eyes were bright. Her voice had a positive lilt to it—light as a cloud.

He was sorry.

"Uhm," He cleared his throat and nervously looked away from her face. She smiled at him understandingly, a dimple that reassured him. He tried again.

"A 2/3 caff triple ristretto affogato venti, 2 pump mango 2 pump classic, 2%, mango to the second line, 1 scoops protein, 3 scoops berries, 3 scoop matcha, add half a banana, double blended, with extra whip, caramel drizzle, salted caramel topping, vanilla bean frappuccino" With each word that stumbled out of his mouth in an awkward mumble, he saw her soul exiting her body. Happiness ceased to exist at this moment.

For a brief second he thought she was going to quit, he would have understood and supported her decision 100%-he would not be able to fault her in the least-but for some reason or reasons unknown to him, she accepted her a good sport, he was giving her a tip. She deserved it,

"Name?" blunt. Dull. Dead. Caught off guard, he tripped up.

"John..." he trailed off at the end with a questioning lilt. She nodded solemnly and turned to make Sherlock's drink from hell. She closed her register and customers looked questioningly at him. His cheeks warmed. Fuck Sherlock Holmes.

Fuck him.

John shifted his weight. The drink was taking a really long time and the other baristas soon began to glare at him for disrupting the flow they had going. It wasn't like it was his fault. If they wanted to judge anyone, they could judge Sherlock, because John would not have any of it. He drank his coffee black and bitter.

And no Mary, he **did** like it that way. So what if he gagged a little? Coffee shouldn't be drunk if you had to bury it under tons of sugar and cream to enjoy it.

He never seasoned his steak for the exact same reason.

His name was eventually called and he walked to get Sherlock's drink. He tried smiling at the poor barista but she only walked away. He sighed. Yeah, that was fair.

He took the drink and looked at the name. He stopped in his tracks and blinked.

 _Jawn_

That was also fair.

If he was being honest with himself, the drink didn't look half bad. He was really tempted to try it, actually. Would Sherlock mind? Probably.

Instead, he headed back to 221b and hoped to never have to do this again.

* * *

Sherlock only took a sip of the drink before declaring that it was wrong and throwing it at the kitchen sink. It crashed against the pile of beakers loudly. A second passed before something shattered on the ground. Just lovely.

John took a deep breath and took out a piece of paper.

"You asked me to get you a 2/3 caff triple ristretto affogato venti, 2 pump mango 2 pump classic, 2%, mango to the second line, 1 scoops protein, 3 scoops berries, 3 scoop matcha, add half a banana, double blended, with extra whip, caramel drizzle, salted caramel topping, vanilla bean frappuccino, I wrote it down," he waved the piece of paper around as if that did anything, "I double checked with you" he pointed to the mess that was dripping from the sink "that is it"

Sherlock looked exasperated. Almost as if John was too stupid to understand why the drink was an utter failure. John decided that Sherlock didn't deserve to be punched in the face yet, but he was on thin ice.

"Yes. But it's wrong"

"What do you mean?" he could feel the beginning of a headache forming right between his eyes. Medical professionals called those Sherlockaches. Trust him, he was doctor, he knew what he was talking about

"They made it _wrong_."

"What are you on about?"

"Whoever made it put in a _whole banana_ " he looked disgusted.

John laughed. Of course. Of course, they did. Of course, William Sherlock Scott Holmes could tell that a whole banana was used instead of just half.

His life was a fucking joke.

"Go get me another one. Make sure it's done right this time"

* * *

The barista cried when she saw him again.

It would not be the last time.

* * *

 **A/N At this point, it's starting to look like this fic is John Watson vs retail workers. I'm not sorry**

 **Also. Happy Valentine's day**


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